


The good Lord speaks like a rolling thunder

by mahkent



Series: Bottom of the river [2]
Category: God of War
Genre: Drowning, Gen, ptsd-related hallucinations, unintentional child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 09:12:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14713268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahkent/pseuds/mahkent
Summary: It is only when he has the child halfway off the bed that it wakes, shrieking suddenly in agitation and confusion. "Faðir--" The child cries, thin fingers raising to scrape at the Ghost's hand. He does not care.





	The good Lord speaks like a rolling thunder

The Ghost of Sparta wakes. 

He sits up, looking around a new room. A new place. The air is cold and bitter in his lungs; the walls are made of wooden planks, the sun shining through the gaps. Fur is laid across the bed he is on. On a nearby table sits a head, both eyes closed, the horns jutting from its forehead wrapped in rope as if for carrying. 

In the other bed lies a child. Immediately, he knows this is no Grecian; the skin is too fair on this child, the hair is too red, the freckles upon the child's skin too visible. The furs over the child are thick and coarse. The Ghost stares, curious, but wary enough to keep his distance.

Observation is required, he decides, in order to judge this new place. A glance through the gaps in the walls reveals a snowy landscape- something his home so rarely had- and sharp, angled trees. A river rushes nearby. Cold, dark coals rest in a fireplace, undoubtedly to stave off the cold. Yet the child shivers still. Despite the thick furs, despite the undoubtedly warm bed it lies in, the shivers wrack the child every so often. 

The child coughs. It's quiet, rasping in the child's throat, but it flecks the child's mouth with blood. Evidently this is normal, as the child does not wake. This means it is weak. The Ghost has long since learned that, when faced with an enemy child, that he must put it through a trial of strength. For Zeus, to bolster the strength and win the favor of his father. 

The child's neck is thin, like the shaft of a spear, in his grasp. The child himself is scrawny and light. From his experiences in the legions, he knows the child has either been malnourished, or was too sickly to eat as well as it could have. It is only when he has the child halfway off the bed that it wakes, shrieking suddenly in agitation and confusion. "Faðir--" The child cries, thin fingers raising to scrape at the Ghost's hand. He does not care. 

The river is close by. With his strength, and how tiny the child is- how old is it? The Ghost would estimate that it is perhaps eight, generously speaking- the journey takes but minutes. "Silence, weakling." Is the only thing he says to the child. It screams and writhes more, with more vigor than he'd expect from someone so slim. Again he does not care. The emotions of a child are unnecessary. The hardiness, the ability to thrive, is what matters. 

Kneeling by the river, the child is pushes down. The thin hands slip off his as it looks up. The clear blue eyes are filled with tears, slowly dripping down its face, and its mouth forms into what sounds like pleading. The language is harsh and nonsensical to the Ghost's ears. The biting cold freezes the tears halfway down its face, and yet it still pleads. The noise annoys him so much that he states, flatly, "Withstand the test of the gods and they will spare you." 

He grasps the child's shoulder with his free hand. Under his palm he can feel something snap within the shoulder, the child shrieking, pleading even more with desperation. The Ghost simply looks up at the foreign skies, searching for his father even so far from home. "To Zeus, lord of the skies." He rumbles, glancing back down at the child briefly to see if it has shut up. 

The rushing river takes the child with ease. Any noises are ripped away, and the Ghost watches impassively as it struggles. Blood swirls into nothing in the water from its head, the breath ripped from its throat- he sees the gasping like a fish, no air bubbles coming from its mouth within seconds- the strength reinvigorated only for survival. 

It's a valiant attempt, really. The weak lamb struggling and writhing beneath his grasp is almost amusing. The child lasts longer than expected, however- it seemed so _weak_ , upon first glance. Perhaps the Ghost will be surprised yet.

Minutes pass before the child falls limp in his grasp. Its eyes are wide, that odd shine somehow gone, until the Ghost lifts it from the water. It sputters and coughs, hacking up bloodied water as its weak lungs fail to function properly, but yet it speaks in a weak voice. "Fff- fað-" is all it gets out before he pushes it back under, again, again, again. To Zeus, he raises his eyes, and raises his voice. 

"The child that withstands the water will be for the gods-" the child kicks, hands again raising to scratch futilely at his wrists- "and Ares may have his rage. Zeus may have his loyalty; Athena, his mind." The war prayer is short. The Ghost would feel guilty for how pathetic it was, had the child not withstood the water in the many times he forced it under. 

Suddenly it feels so _wrong_ , though. Belatedly his mind translates _faðir_. Πατέρας, father; is this his child? He has none. He does not even have a wife. Suddenly, so suddenly, the weight of another life crashes upon his broad shoulders. Atreus- the boy under his hand, his son with his wife who now is gone, staring up at him in heartbroken terror. Blood flecks his lips, sliding down his chin with the water. His thin chest heaves with the effort of breathing. Kratos can see the shivers wracking his son's body, the convulsions as his body struggles to warm up again.

Kratos can only stare down at his son in horror as he gurgles on the bloody water in his throat, a weak cry the only noise he can make. The heavy hand on his son's shoulder, having migrated from the boys neck, lifts away. Kratos is afraid he'll shatter his son if he touches him again- the massive bruises on Atreus' neck are a stark remainder of his apparent detachment from reality. 

"Atreus." Finally, blessedly, he manages to form a word. Even to his own ears it's weak, a pathetic attempt at making up for what he did. The boy only looks up and moans again. The movements he does make are jerky and sloppy. It's all Kratos can do to keep his hands of Atreus, as he knows full well any skin-to-skin contact will only agitate the boy further. 

" _Atreus_." This too yields only more agitation. Atreus' eyes brim again with tears, freezing on his lashes and down his cheeks. Those wide, sad eyes flick over Kratos' still hovering hands like a wild animal would look at a hunter. A whine rips it's way from his throat. Kratos is glad he isn't one prone to tears, because even his throat feels tight.

Atreus struggles to speak. Kratos can see the shivers steal his focus, the pathetic attempts at suppressing them only making him shiver harder. Once the boy does speak, it's shaky, so soft that the wind may as well whisk it away. "Fff- fath-ther." 

All Kratos can think about is how _he_ did this. The Ghost Of Sparta be damned, he is the one who wrapped his hands around his son's neck. He is the one who held his son under the water and watched the boy struggle until he fell still, over and over again. He is the one who lost so much control that his past came to wreak vengeance upon his innocent son. The all-encompassing guilt is all he can register for a beat or two. "I-" is all he can say as Atreus sits up, pushing himself backwards with stiff legs. 

"I am sorry." Those three words, any combination of words at all, could never explain how truly sorry he is. Atreus' broken stare and bruised neck consumes his thoughts- how could he do this? Faye entrusted him with their child upon their death, expecting him to take care of him no matter what. For the most part Kratos had managed thus far, but... this is something new. He is no fool; he knows that this will not go away in a day. Atreus will forever be afraid of him, frightened of the concept of being forced underwater again and having his life ripped away by the man who is supposed to love and protect him. 

" _Why_?" Even behind the rasping voice, Kratos knows what his son is asking. _Why did you do this to me?_ Truthfully, Kratos does not know. His past haunts him upon occasions, but never so far as the Ghost manifesting itself in any major way. Why did he hurt his son? He harbors no ill will against his son- the long, long journey they have been on thus far has only strengthened his love for his son, and yet...

"I do not know." With that, he picks up his son- feeling every twitch, every quiver of his son's thin frame against his chest, feeling every muffled cough rumbling from his son's already weak lungs, the blood splattering against those thin archer's fingers and over his lips that are pressed together to stave off tears- and heads back to the house, silent and terrified of what is to come.

**Author's Note:**

> companion piece to [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14713250)


End file.
